Alagos a Elin
by Elenwen
Summary: Erestor romance, spanning Third Age 1404-1434. Forbidden love brings Rivendell to the brink of war and another Kinslaying... Chapter 5 uploaded.
1. Of dreams and new arrivals

**Alagos a Elin**

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters, concepts and places are property J.R.R. Tolkien and/or his estate. All things Haredhil, however, are mine. Neener. ;P

Rating: This _may_ reach R in a couple of places down the line, and I will give proper warning if it does. Overall, though, PG-13.

A/N: My first romance fic, and an AU, due to some mucking about with the Silmarillion (nothing Middle-earth-shattering, worry not). I was pondering the Haradrim and the Variags and got to thinking about savage Elves, and this is the result. More will be explained as the story goes along, but for now all you really need to know is that in this universe, there are Elves inhabiting Khand (a land east-southeast of Mordor, traditionally allied with Sauron, just in case anyone's going "Where...?").

  


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_Nínui, Year 1404 of the Third Age_

  
The day had been pleasant, with the rays of Anor warming both earth and air alike, further weakening the chill of rhîw, whose tendrils of frost continued to linger. 'Twas the rising of Ithil and the cool of night which silvered once more the grounds of Imladris, and brought a shiver to the spines of those who remained yet awake within the Last Homely House, and their numbers were greater than usual.

Erestor, once sentry to the High King Gil-galad and now chief counsellor to Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Rivendell, flexed his fingers around the balustrade that encircled the balcony he stood upon, curling and uncurling them, and all who knew him and would look upon him then knew the repititive action was symbolic of his agitation. Though it was not uncommon for Imladris to receive visitors or take in weary travellers, it was indeed quite another thing for the haven to not only willingly invite an enemy into its boundaries, but also to shelter them for the duration of their stay.

They were known as Haredhil, the Elves of one of the southernmost regions of Khand, and they came to Rivendell under the guise of negotiations, with pretty declarations of "making peace" with their Foredhil-gwanyr. Already they had been refused council by the rulers of Lothlórien and Mirkwood, and though Erestor had urged Lord Elrond to follow their example, Glorfindel had not, and in the end the Lord of Imladris had sided with the golden-haired Elf.

Nearly three months had passed since the agreement had been made - plenty of time for Erestor to nurse whatever wounds the others perceived they had inflicted upon his pride, though in truth his ego had been little harmed by Lord Elrond's decision. Erestor's position was one of reason and objectivity, and he pined not for the Half-elf's personal favour. He respected his lord's choice on the matter, but that did not mean he accepted it as the correct one.

_No good can come of this,_ he silently fortold, and gripped the banister more tightly. His grey eyes, keen even in the shadow of night, scanned the southwest-facing slopes of the ravine in which Rivendell was nestled. As if to further prove his voiceless omen, three dark riders appeared at its edge, and started swiftly down the steep path that would lead them to the main house. Cloaked in black, they resembled the Nazgûl much too closely for Erestor's comfort, and gloomily he wondered how far from the truth that comparison lay. Khand was a wicked land, teeming with thieves and savages; only a fool would be unwary of a people who fain made their homes there, yet claimed to be good and noble of heart.

Lord Elrond had agreed to hear out their proclamations of peace, but he was no fool. A group of guards five strong was already on its way to "greet and escort" the Haredhil to the stables, a thinly-veiled act of caution that their guests would likely see right through. No matter; if they truly were seeking peace, they would understand and take no offence of the extra monitory measures.

Though he neither saw nor heard Glorfindel's approach, Erestor could sense the other Elf-lord's presence on the periphery of his psyche, and therefore he was not surprised when a melodious voice acknowledged from behind him, "They arrive."

It was a statement, not a question, and Erestor made no motion to respond to it. He felt the heat of Glorfindel's hand upon his shoulder, and ponder in regard to its meaning. Reassurance? A beckoning gesture meant to draw him back inside? No...

Concern, he finally decided. Though only minorly, Glorfindel was worried for him.

But of course, reassurance served as the tow-headed Elf's excuse.

"Be not too leary, gwador-nîn," he softly spoke. "They will be quite carefully watched, and vigilently kept from that which is not theirs to see and hear."

Erestor gave no further reply than a solitary nod of his head.

"Calm, then," Glorfindel pressed as if the dark-haired Elf were caught in the throes of a violent fit of temper, "and let us greet them properly."

He turned to go and, wordlessly, Erestor followed him.

It was on the front steps of the house that they met the mighty and wise Lord Elrond and the fair Lady Celebrían, who both appeared regal and proud, and wore fine robes befitting of a first meeting with the lord of another realm, however shady it was deemed to be. Near to them stood Lindir, one of the priveleged guards who had been entrusted with keeping watch over Elrond and Celebrían's children, until they had come of age.

Elrond imparted a nod to the two counsellors upon their arrival, the sound of hoofbeats in the distance already overcoming the continuous din of the Bruinen. One of the horses called out a loud whinny as the visitors and guard unit reached the stables, and but moments afterward, those who resided in the House of Elrond received their first glimpse of the strangers from a dark and distant land.

They were mere silhouettes at first, hints of forms paler than the surrounding night moving ever closer, their cloaks and hoods still shrouding their faces. It was not until they reached the base of the stairs that halted, and made to show themselves.

The first to push back his hood was the tallest of the three, his hair ruddy brown and plaited flat to his head in thin rows. He had a finely-boned, determined - though not imposing - face, and heavy-lidded eyes of deep grey.

The second contrasted the first in his appearance, this one's hair so pale as to be likened to white gold, plaited in the same style as the other's. His eyes were a dull shade of blue, though their colour seemed the only dull thing about him. His features were sharp and angular, and his mouth had a curl to it that led Erestor to believe he sneered far more often than he smiled.

And the third - why, the third was no male at all, but rather a grave maiden. Her face was beautiful, but fair she was not: like her two companions, her skin was warm and browned from many years spent beneath the bright heat of Anor. Her hair had likely once been dark, but it, too, had been affected by the harshness of the sun in her realm, and was now stripped to a gleaming auburn. All this might have appeared boring and monochromatic, had it not been counterpointed by the startling lightness of her eyes, which were so pale a shade of grey that their irises all but blended together with their whites.

It was not until he heard someone speak his name that Erestor remembered to breathe.

Once his heart began to beat once more, its pace was irrational. He swallowed discreetly, inwardly berating himself for his momentary foolishness and praying to Eru that he had only been introduced, and not spoken to.

"It is both an honour and a pleasure to be granted admittance into your realm, Lord Elrond," the tallest one said earnestly. "I am known as Lithir, Lord of Caras Hargil. This--" he gestured to the pale-haired Elf with a small wave of his hand, "--is Anorast, my most trusted advisor. And this--" he turned now to the female, pride and a fierce protectiveness shining in his eyes, "--is my daughter, Gwelwen."

At his words, one thing became instantly certain: exotic as these Elves did seem, it was obvious that they had not followed the Variags' descent into savagery - leastwise, not wholly.

Erestor looked upon Gwelwen, unable to tear his gaze away from her until she, too, flicked her ghostly stare upon him. The glance had all the effect on him of a silent scream. His blood ran as ice water in his veins, and he could not hold her eyes. _Mayhap,_ he mused to himself, _there is a trace of wildness in these Haredhil that awaits its unmasking..._

"Come," said Lady Celebrían to her guests, "take some rest in our Homely House, for your journey has been long, and you are no doubt weary from travel."

Elrond dismissed the five guards who had accompanied the Khandian Elves to the house, and the remaining eight ventured indoors.

They would break fast at the usual time tomorrow in the great dining hall, after which the first of several more formal meetings would commence, and there was no telling how much of the day would be lost to talk. Erestor mutely thanked Ilúvatar that Gwelwen would not be attending it. Already she had caused one lapse in his normally extremely attentive mind; he could not be sure how severely his concentration would suffer if made to spend hours in her presence.

"Erestor."

He quickly shook his mind free of his thoughts at the sound of Lord Elrond's commanding voice, and looked questioningly at the Half-elf.

"Do escort the Lady Gwelwen to her chambers."

Erestor nodded. "Of course, my Lord." Stoically, he offered the maiden his hand. Her fingers were as ice against his palm as he led her down the corridors of Imladris, and neither offered any words or trifles that might have served to break the tense silence that fell into pace between them. Erestor was both relieved and reluctant when they at last reached the door to her rooms - though her fingers were cold, they were soft, and rested with the weight of a butterfly against his skin. It was an odd and not entirely unappealing sensation.

"I shall return in the morning to escort you to the dining hall," he said quietly, and Gwelwen nodded once as she opened the door and stepped beyond its threshold. For a few moments, she simply glanced around the main room, and Erestor patiently awaited her approval of her accomodations.

"Thank you," she murmured at last, her voice low and just as warm as the colour of her skin against his ears. "Good-night, Lord Erestor."

"Good-night, Lady Gwelwen," he returned, and closed the door with a soft click, biting back an alleviated sigh once he was on one side of it and she on the other.

Composure set firmly in place, Erestor made his way toward Lord Elrond's study, where he, his lord and Glorfindel would speak briefly of the new arrivals before retiring for the night. One of the five sentries had already taken his position at the end of the hall that contained the Lady Gwelwen's quarters, and he nodded to the guard as he passed.

A strange turmoil had begun to stir inside of him, for he could not discern whether the cause of the gooseflesh that prickled his skin was seated in pleasure or unease - or perhaps both. Whatever the reason for it, the sudden anxious feeling pressing near the back of his tongue unnerved him. It was an anticipation the likeness of which he had not known in nearly one thousand years, and he was wary of it.

He was the last to arrive in the study, and it was refreshing to see that for once his eternally pensive face was not out of place. His lord greeted him and bade him sit down, which he did.

"Anorast does not walk," said Glorfindel, and he would have sounded amused had it not been for the apprehension in his eyes, "but rather he prowls, like a great cat, and does so with his head held high so as to better taste the air for prey. He is searching for something. For what, I do not know. But I would sooner make merry with a warg than place my trust in him. His voice is a serpent's hiss that bodes only ill."

"How queer, then," Lord Elrond frowned, "that Lithir would keep him so near, for I can find naught but sincerity in both the lord's mannerisms and voice. He is...nervous of being here, but I believe his spoken intentions are true. There is a way to him that leads me to believe he takes no joy in false promises, and finds no glory in his marred realm."

"I suppose it is possible," Glorfindel spoke again, "that unofficially, Lithir and Anorast rule jointly, and in their differences create a balance by which leadership is successful."

Lord Elrond nodded, and steepled his fingers against his chin in thought as he turned toward his silent advisor. "Erestor, what think you of these first impressions?"

Erestor glanced down at his lap, a vision of palest grey flashing in front of his eyes, and a wraithlike scream ringing in his ears. "I think, my Lord," he began, "that first impressions, while important, can easily deceive, and we should wait until morrow before furthering our conclusions with respect to our guests' true faces."

Taking this wisdom in, Lord Elrond nodded acquiescence. "Very well. You are both free to go. Try to take some rest tonight," he ordered, his eyes focused on the dark-haired Elf, "for tomorrow will be long and tiresome, of that I have no doubt."

The two counsellors stood and bowed shortly before leaving the Lord of Imladris to his solitude and ruminations.

"My friend," said Glorfindel as they walked the long corridor that would lead them to their respective rooms, "I highly recommend you heed Lord Elrond's request. You look tired. How long has it been since last you slept?"

"The Second Age," Erestor answered, willing a trace of humour into his voice. The response had the desired affect: Glorfindel laughed easily, and placed a hand once again on the other Elf-lord's shoulder once they reached the door to his quarters.

"Then indeed, you should seek sleep tonight. Rest your mind and be content to dream. Tomorrow will afford plenty of time for seriousness."

"If Lórien allows, I shall walk that realm," Erestor promised, a small smile forming on his mouth as he opened the door to his rooms. "Good-night, Glorfindel."

"Good-night, gwador-nîn. Rest thee well."

Once within the privacy of his chambers, Erestor relaxed somewhat, standing not as tall as he did in the company of others and admitting the fatigue that lay behind his eyes to reveal itself. He really _was_ tired, he relented to himself as he disrobed, and began to unweave the plaits in his long hair. Oft times - far too many for Glorfindel and Lord Elrond's liking, despite the latter Elf-lord being guilty of the same - he simply forgot to sleep, and remained awake for days on end, not realising until his mind caught up with his body how badly he needed rest.

It was not that he had reason to distrust slumber; rather, he simply did not find the delight others sought in its embrace. His dreams were not extravagent flights of fancy, nor were they wrought with terrible visions of times long past; they simply _were_, and he neither enjoyed nor disliked them. Logical to the very end, his dreams were like extensions of his waking thoughts: cool, calculating and precise. Hardly more than a tool he sometimes employed to sort through his daily intellections, and clear his mind of clutter for the next day's quandaries that needed solving.

Thus it was with indifferent resignation that Erestor found his bed that night, and allowed his eyes to grow glassy and half-lidded as he entered the realm of Elven-dreams, expecting nothing more than the colourless images that usually haunted his mind as he travelled its paths.

Black and white he did see, and grey as well. But in time, new colours began to join the old, their vibrance sending a strange, warm thrill coursing through him. Flashes of honey-brown skin, and hair that whipped like a dark flame in the arid wind; shell-pink lips, and eyes the colour of clouds that were clear and bright with passion.

When he stirred the following morning, with the first rays of the dawn cutting pale lines across his bed, he could still feel the ghostly presence of hot kisses peppering his face and neck. His heart quickened within the cage of his ribs as he sat up abruptly, and his breath became shallow.

"What devilry is this?" he asked the emptiness of his bedchamber, his voice hoarse, then ran a hand over his face, pushing damp hair out of his eyes. Shakily he rose, heading for his bath without thought.

A nearby underground spring had been connected to Rivendell's plumbery, allowing warm water to be pumped into the private baths of the main house's residents. The steam that coiled into the air as he soaked away the sweat from his body rivalled the fog that misted his mind. Never before had he experienced a dream of such a sensual nature, let alone one which lacked any real provocation. It took him more effort than it should have to force the images of it from his head, and when they at last fled, he was left with an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that gave him no want for the first meal of the day, nor want to escort the object of his discontent to receive it.

_This is folly,_ he scolded himself, shaking his head in disgust. _You are making a grain of sand seem a desert. 'Twas but a dream, nothing more. She is Haredhil._

Stepping free from his bath, Erestor nodded as if to reaffirm his rightness.

She was Haredhil, a culture nearly severed from all Elvenkind, thriving in the shadow of Mordor. There was no telling of the enchantments her people possessed, no way of knowing what black sorcery could be cast by their wicked hands, and the euphoria of magic could make one feel at "peace" indeed.

He quieted his thoughts when his unease began to morph into anger. He could not endure the day simmering with rage the cause of which was so unclear. 'Twas but a dream. He was an advisor, an impartial; to be emotionally distant and unbiased toward that which he was examining played largely into his ability to perform his duties successfully. She was Haredhil; he would have nothing to do with her beyond helping to decide the best course of action for her people to take in order to achieve peace.

Appropriately clothed and groomed, Erestor left his chambers and started for hers with stern eyes and silent steps.

  


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Translations (all Sindarin):

Alagos a Elin - "Storm of Wind and Stars"  
Gwelwen - "air maiden"  
Lithir - "sand lord"  
Anorast - "sun dust"  
Haredhil - "South-elven"  
Caras Hargil - "City of the Southern Star"  
Foredhil-gwanyr - "North-elven kinsmen"  
gwador-nîn - "my brother (sworn; not by blood)"  
rhîw - "winter"  
Nínui - "February"  
Anor - the sun  
Ithil - the moon

Questions? Comments? Criticism? Compliments? Alliteration? I'd love to hear any and all. :) 


	2. Of flowers and tense talks

Disclaimer: Canon things = Tolkien's; Haredhil things = Elenwen's. Brought to you by the number _eneg_, and the letter _Í_. ;) Notes and thanks at the bottom.

  


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It was early yet, Erestor realised when he reached the door to the lady's chambers. Breakfast was not for an hour, and he had been so caught up in his thoughts that he had not noticed how far ahead of schedule he was. It was possible she had not even awoken yet, and he lingered in the hall momentarily, wondering if he should not busy himself elsewhere...

No. If she was not yet awake, she would need to be shortly, and his irritation would only grow if he came later to collect her and she was not ready.

Resolutely, he raised a hand and knocked firmly thrice on the door.

A few scant seconds later, it opened to reveal a maiden who looked as though she had indeed been awake for some time. She was dressed in what Erestor supposed was the traditional ladies' attire of her people: her gown was of lightweight silk, the colour of cream, and stitched with gold. Her feet were bare. Upon her head rested a thin circlet of gold.

Her expression was expectant, patiently waiting for him to speak. Erestor tore his eyes away from his examination of her appearance, and focused them upon hers, his jaw tightening to stave off a chill as he did so.

"Lady Gwelwen," he found his voice at last, "my apologies for the intrusion; I merely wanted to be sure that you would wake in time to break fast this morning."

Gwelwen gave him a small nod. "I am awake," she murmured, rising up slightly on her toes - a gesture of uncertainty, if Erestor was correct in his perceptions. "I have been so for some two hours now."

He frowned. "Was your bed unacceptable? If so, I can assure you that whatever the problem--"

"No," she interrupted him, a light flush creeping upon her cheeks. "I am sorry. My bed is perfectly acceptable - I was merely...restless. This realm and house are both very new to me, and I am afraid my slumber was light due to the unfamiliarity of my surroundings."

"Ah," Erestor offered lamely, understanding the underlying meaning of her words, but unwilling to actualise their entailment. He hoped that his feigned ignorance would deter her, and had even begun to turn to leave, but alas, such was not meant to be.

"I would like," she said imploringly, placing a hand on his arm and halting his departure, "to better familiarise myself with the beauty of Imladris, though I am wary of venturing its grounds alone, as I fear its residents would be equally wary of my presence." Her eyes flicked toward the guard still stationed at the end of the hall; obviously, she had discerned that he was there for her "benefit".

"...of course," Erestor relented, seeing no way out of agreeing to her request. In truth, he could have claimed politely enough that he had many important matters of an official status to attend to ere breakfast was served, but the part of his mind that was usually so adept at making such excuses appeared to be clouded by forces unknown.

Offering her his hand as he had the previous night, and taking note that her fingers were just as cool now as they had been then, they started down the hall, Erestor nodding once in acknowledgement at the hesitant-looking guard as they passed.

He led her first to the garden, deciding it best that they stay well away from the library and other like rooms, which were filled with priceless historical artifacts, maps and books whose secrets were better left precisely that. She seemed enchanted by the roses, and ran her free hand lightly along one small white bud.

"Have you not roses in Khand?" he enquired, seeking some break in the silence that had once again settled between them.

"O yes," she answered, releasing his hand as she bent down to better examine a pale bloom. "But they are never like this. The colours of the desert bleed into all of the flowers in Caras Hargil, and when they bloom they never appear so gentle. Their blossoms are as flames - beautiful in their own right, but sometimes as harsh to look upon as Anor itself."

Though her comparison struck a cord with Erestor, he held his tongue. His was not to charm her, nor even to desire to. "Then perhaps you would also enjoy the falls, as I cannot imagine there being many where you are from."

"No," she admitted, a small smile touching the corners of her lips. "No falls. But I would very much like to see the ones here. Have we time?"

He glanced up at the sun, frowning slightly. "It is doubtful. Even if we left presently, once we reached our destination there would be little time to appreciate its splendour."

"Mm," Gwelwen sighed, rising up to take his hand again as they continued on through the gardens. "Perhaps later, then."

"Perhaps," he agreed, sounding none too eager about the possibility. "If time permits."

"Do you not enjoy my company, Lord Erestor?"

"No," he said quickly, then caught himself and shook his head. "Yes. I...it is only that there is much to be done, and I cannot..."

She arched an eyebrow inquisitively, and finished for him, "Cannot be bothered to play nursemaid to a savage Haredhel?"

He stared at her seriously, seeing his own half-exasperated, half-apologetic countenance reflected in the paleness of her eyes. "I do not think you savage, my Lady," he said softly, and her face betrayed neither anger nor satisfaction at his confession.

"But I am," she murmured, the sound of her voice almost a quiet hiss. "I hunt on the backs of Mûmakil, and dance naked beneath the light of Ithil with the spawn of Ungoliant; I invoke the wicked song of Melkor, and enslave the sickly Men with my voice; I command the scorpions that infest my desert realm to seek out my enemies, slip within their beds and blacken their dreams with a poisoned sting. All of these things you have heard before, have you not?"

Her face was very close to his, and Erestor could feel her warm breath on his cheek. He tried in vain to swallow, but found his mouth suddenly dry as the desiccated lands of which she spoke. Not trusting his parched voice, he only nodded an answer, for he could find no point in lying to her. He did know the rumours well, but by her face and voice alone he could not discern whether she was scorning them or threatening to prove them facts.

"And you believe them, do you not?"

At this prompting, Erestor somehow managed to find his words again. "I believe that which is true, my Lady."

She would not desist. "And what is true to you, my Lord?"

"That which can be felt with my own hands," he replied. "That which can be heard with my own ears, and seen with my own eyes."

Gwelwen laughed. "If you will pardon my temerity, my Lord, that is a silly thing to say. What believe you of the Valar you do not see? Or Ilúvatar Himself whom you cannot touch? Indeed all of history, by your bounds, could be labelled as non-existent!"

"But history does not exist," he countered. "It exist_ed_, and the rules that hold fast the past and present are vastly different and cannot be likened in most respects. And can I not touch Ilúvatar? He is found in all earthly life. I run my hand along a riverstone, dip my feet in cool water, inhale a breath of air, and I feel Him."

"And what of the Valar?"

He smiled, and hummed a small sound of amusement. "All arrogance has a point where it must cease, and content itself with what lowly wisdom it possesses."

"A leap of faith, then?" she surmised.

"A leap? Nay." He shook his head. "It takes but a step."

"And your faith in the civility of my people, how wide a gap must you leap across to reach it?"

His eyes darkened, and he turned away from her. "I have not the foresight to say, and regardless it is not I who guides the faith of Imladris in others. That burden falls upon Lord Elrond's shoulders."

"A burden that you have been appointed to help carry," she persisted, and he held up a hand to silence her.

"My Lady," he said lowly, "you presume too much. If you would seek to argue for peace between our peoples, speak not to me forthwith and save your words until you are invited to council, for only then will I or anyone else pay them any heed. The future relations between our respective realms will be given due discourse, I assure you, but now is neither the time nor the place for it."

She stiffened at his reprimand, and focused her eyes upon her feet as they walked. "Forgive me, my Lord," she muttered, quelling whatever acid remark Erestor could sense lingering on the tip of her tongue. "I forgot my place."

They traversed to the dining hall in silence.

***+*+*+***

Having never been one to be vague about matters of great import, Lord Elrond brought the first of doubtless many meetings into commencement quickly and directly:

"What say you of peace, Lord Lithir?"

And though the Haredhel did not seem at all taken aback by the Lord of Rivendell's lack of pleasantries, he nevertheless appeared reluctant to speak. He stared down at his hands, which were splayed on the table in front of him, for some moments, and when he at last met the other Elf-lord's gaze there was something not wholly unlike guilt dulling his eyes.

"Alas, Lord Elrond," he said dourly, "though you have been very tolerant, and kind in excess, and we do all appreciate that kindness, I fear we have not been...completely truthful...in regard to our reasons for being here. But please," he quickly added, "I pray thee, hear our explanations, for we wish no ill upon your house, nor upon any who reside herein."

The Half-elf's expression did not waver from its stern impassiveness. "Go on," he quietly ordered, lacing his fingers together and pressing them to his mouth as he always did when in wary thought.

"Forsooth, we seek more than peace: we...we require aid, my Lord. We wish to move west, out of the shadow of Mordor, and we cannot do it alone. An alliance with Imladris would greatly improve our political standing with other realms, both Elven and Mannish, and mayhap it would afford us a chance to settle and prove our intentions are good." He paused, and a pregnant silence filled the council room until Lord Elrond prompted him to speak further. Lord Lithir's face reddened slightly, and he closed his eyes as if gathering his courage to give his as yet unspoken words a voice.

Seemingly taking pity on his lord's unwillingness, Anorast stood, and unlike Lord Lithir, there was nothing in the pale-haired Elf's face and movements that indicated he was even the least bit loath to address whatever troubles plagued the Haredhil of Khand.

"Even if an agreement of unquestionable peace was reached, my Lord," said he to Elrond, "we would still be unable to move West alone. You above all should be knowledgeable the perils that haunt our arid lands. Caras Hargil is far from a tranquil city; constantly we are under threat of attack by Mordain forces. Variags, Orcs and Haradrim line our borders under the command of the Black Captain. The Nine grow ever restless, and their armies of creatures better left dead expand in number with each passing day. We have not the resources or the strength to fight Mordor and, if you deny us your sanction and assistance, Gondor and Lórien _and_ Mirkwood as well, should they decide that our steps sully the northern lands."

"You exaggerate," said Glorfindel, and Anorast, who had been pacing, stopped, indignation briefly flaring in his eyes. "The realms you speak of have their own difficulties that demand their attention," Glorfindel continued. "If your forces are truly as weak as you claim, what leads you to believe that northern rulers would focus their attention on the migration of your people?"

"They would focus their attention," Anorast growled through clenched teeth, "if they believed the Haredhil to be a threat - and you cannot deny that they do see us as such, and you cannot tell me with honesty that you would not sooner crush a sapless enemy than allow it to prosper and gain potency."

"And what ensurance have we that you are _not_ our enemy, other than your pleas for help? What proof have we that you will honour the peace you so fiercely vie for, that you all but _demand_ of us?!" Glorfindel rose suddenly in anger, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste. "A wounded enemy's greatest weapon can be the compassion given to him by those he would slay once well again!"

Anorast leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table, his voice a deadly hiss. "Dishonour me or mine with anymore of your lies and the very quickness with which I kill you will be the last act of compassion you will ever know!"

"Anorast, _sit_!" Lord Lithir commanded, his shout impressive for one so subdued. "Whatever dishonour we have suffered this day has been at your foolish hand," he muttered darkly as Anorast slowly lowered himself back into his seat. "My Lord Elrond, I apologise for my advisor's...vehemence. He means Lord Glorfindel no ill. _Do you_, Anorast?"

"Nay," the pale-haired Elf mumbled, lips twisted in an ironic smirk, and bowed his head in a way that could not be described as anything less than mocking. "One thousand apologies, Lord Glorfindel. I was impassioned, and spoke without thought."

"I accept your apology," Glorfindel replied in a tone that clearly said the opposite, "and offer one of my own in return."

The situation handled with as much grace as was possible, Anorast nodded, and Lord Elrond stood to address them all.

"Despite the restored civility of this discussion, it is my ruling that we adjourn for now to better cool our tempers and--" his gaze moved briefly over Anorast, "--collect our thoughts. We shall meet again in one hour's time."

"That may well be the wisest thing that has been said all morning," Lord Lindir agreed, rising from his chair. The two Haredhil left silently, and in their absence Lord Elrond allowed himself a moment's discomposure, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"That could have gone better," he sighed, and sank back down in his seat.

"It went no worse than a council with Dwarves," Glorfindel pointed out, and Elrond shot him an admonishing glare.

"And you failed to help matters any. I realise you do not trust Anorast, my friend - in all honesty, neither do I - but quarrelling will solve nothing. Do not allow your judgement of many to be clouded by the actions of one."

"I realise, my Lord," Glorfindel ruefully conceded. "I am sorry."

"Bah!" Elrond waved his hand as if to clear the matter from the air. "You are forgiven. It is Lord Lithir that concerns me most."

"Lithir?" Erestor questioned, the first he had opened his mouth since the meeting had begun. "I thought you believed his pleas sincere?"

"I do," the Lord of Rivendell affirmed. "It is not his honesty I doubt, but his ability to uphold that which he seeks. Peace made is all well and good, but it means little if the one whom you make peace with is not the one in control."

"Not in control? He managed to restrain Anorast well enough, it seemed." Glorfindel did not even attempt to conceal his smile at the memory of the Haredhil counsellor being cowed like a common hound.

"Yes..." Elrond murmured, idly twisting an invisible band around the middle finger of his right hand. "But when abashed, he allowed Anorast to 'roam free', as it were, and Anorast does not strike me as one who is wholly tamed."

"You fear he will grow to resent being alternately chained and wild," Erestor supplied, frowning at a random knot in the wood of the table top as his mind continued to sort through all he had observed thus far. "That one day he will return to his master's call only to bite the hand that feeds him, so to speak."

"And Anorast seems quite capable of feeding himself, master or no master," Glorfindel concluded, and for a short time, all were silent with deep thought. "What of Lithir's daughter?"

Erestor's eyes immediately snapped to the golden-haired Elf. "What of her?"

"Her purpose here," Glorfindel explained. "She seems to have none. According to Anorast, it is a perilous journey to cross the borders of Khand and ride freely through foreign lands. It is likely why they came but three strong - a smaller travelling company would be able to more easily slip through undetected. But why would Lithir risk his daughter's life at all, when he could have brought a warrior for more protection, or a second advisor to better smooth over the rough patches forged by Anorast? What purpose serves she in being here?"

"Ah, yes," Lord Elrond agreed. "I have been wondering the same, but have not yet had a chance to enquire of the Lady Gwelwen's presence."

"Mayhap you could employ Lady Celebrían or Lady Arwen to discover it?" Glorfindel suggested. Elrond looked uncertain for a moment, before his eyebrows rose in a sudden epiphany.

"Or mayhap someone who is on more informal terms with the lady could easily discern her reason for being in Imladris," he said, and glanced pointedly at the dark-haired advisor seated next to him. "Erestor, did my aged eyes deceive me, or did I glimpse you and Lady Gwelwen strolling through the gardens early this morn?"

Erestor averted his gaze, and decided that he did not like where this conversation appeared to be headed. "You did, my Lord. But I assure you it was quite innocent. She requested a tour of Imladris, and I could not in politeness refuse her wish. I am no more well acquainted with the Lady Gwelwen than Lady Celebrían is." He looked to Glorfindel, hoping for perhaps some sort of support for his claim, but his loyal "gwador" only offered him a small shrug.

"Nonsense," Lord Elrond scoffed. "What is the problem, Erestor? Did you not enjoy the Lady Gwelwen's company?"

"It was...tolerable." In truth - though a truth Erestor yet refused to admit even to himself - he had enjoyed the Haradhil maiden's company far more than he should have. It had been needlessly rude of him to end their conversation as curtly as he had, but at the time he had thought it the best course of action. If she thought him abrasive, she would not seek out his companionship, and with her absence from his life - as much of an absence as the current situation would permit - his mind would be free and he could put an end to this...this uncharacteristic distraction of his before it became any worse than it already was. It had been a good strategy.

Lord Elrond obviously did not share Erestor's opinion of it.

"Then you will tolerate it further," said the Peredhel, invoking just enough authority into his voice to let it be known that there was to be no argument of matter, and Erestor breathed a quiet, dubious sigh.

"According to your wish, my Lord."

It appeared as though time would permit them to view the falls, after all.

  


* * *

  
eneg - 6 ;)

To **Píp**: Thank you much, and there will definitely be some elaboration on the Khandian "wildness" in future chapters. :)  
To **Woman of the Dunedain**: A sweet, hyper Erestor...oh I do love that mental image. *grins* I have two of him myself - poncy!Erestor and serious!Erestor. But both are slightly-ego-centric brains that abhor getting dirty. ;) Thanks for reviewing; I hope you continue to enjoy this!  
And to **morchaint**: Nazgûl, yes (bloody typos). And augh, I always get the Valar mixed up...feh. Thanks for the corrections, I've got them all fixed now. :) But the Anor's right, since I'm using Sindarin, not Quenya. No worries there. And rock on with the Erestor love. Rock on. He's my favourite in the HoE, too, though I still haven't been able to figure out exactly why. Oh well. Ours Is Not To Question Why. I don't plan on making Gwelwen a Mary Sue (somebody _please_ inform me if I do, so that I may flog and punish and rewrite), and I definitely don't plan on making Erestor a villian (it's unfathomable in my head, really). The worst he'll be is a bit of an occasional prat. Again with the hoping that you'll continue to enjoy this, as we Erestwhores (tm) must stick together. ;)

Thanks for reading, all who've scrolled this far. :) 


	3. Of waterfalls and inner thoughts

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Lazy this morn. Oh, and - Shakespeare. Macbeth. Small turn of phrase.

  


* * *

  
Erestor stared apprehensively down at his plate at supper that evening, occasionally shifting his gaze up to glimpse the Lady Gwelwen seated directly across from him, between her father and Lady Arwen. The air would have been tense enough even lacking the knowledge weighing upon his mind that he had yet to make amends with the Haredhil maiden after their earlier debate, let alone somehow manage to politely enquire of her purpose for being in Imladris.

He clasped his hands together in his lap, unable to allow them their habitual nervous movements in present company. The others were not helping matters any. Despite Glorfindel and Erestor having been placed between the two Haredhil lords and the residents of Rivendell, and meant to act as buffers to nervousness, conversation remained unusually quiet, and its topics reserved. There were none who did not seem eager for the meal to be done with, so that they could retire to the lesser-used rooms of the house to rid themselves of the South-elves presence, and then gossip about it all the same.

As Arwen and Gwelwen attempted a trivial conversation about certain needlepoint stitches exclusive to certain realms, Erestor's eyes wandered to glance at Lord Elrond - specifically, at the Half-elf's right hand. There were a very select few who knew of the unseen trinket that adorned the Master of Lore's middle finger, and fewer still who knew of his deep reluctance to make use of the power it granted him. With it, he could have easily read both the hearts and minds of the Khandian visitors, and discovered each and every one of their true intentions, whether those intentions had anything to do with Imladris or not. 

For the first time, Erestor found himself selfishly wishing that the Peredhel would utilise the power of Vilya for things that did not absolutely require its use, despite the dangers of it being discovered in Lord Elrond's possession.

_Tolerate her further, says he,_ the advisor inwardly groused. _He knows not what he asks of me._

Erestor took a long drink of his wine with hope that the conflicting feelings within him would quiet if he became too lightheaded to give them proper acknowledgement. He could not deny an attraction to the Haredhel maid, but neither could he bring himself to admit it, and in the end his overly analytical mind simply wound itself in circles. Indeed he was not sure whether he felt relieved or even more anxious when Lord Elrond stood and deemed the meal over, and for all to retire at their leisure.

He rose from his seat as the Elves of both Rivendell and Caras Hargil began to drift out of the hall, deciding that deliberation would be of no further use to him and that swift action need be taken. He would dwell on the matter no longer, but attend to his responsibilities immediately and in the shortest possible amount of time.

"My Lady Gwelwen," he opined, catching up to her and her kinsmen in two strides as they left the dining hall. All three Haredhil turned at his voice, and he endeavoured to pay little mind to the lords' suspicious gazes.

"Yes, Lord Erestor?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him coolly.

"I was wondering if you would like to accompany me on a brief walk? The falls are beautiful by twilight," he added.

Gwelwen narrowed her eyes at him for a short moment, then turned to look questioningly at her father, who glanced austerely between Erestor and his daughter.

"...you may see the falls come morrow, with Anorast and myself. If you wish to walk, then Lord Erestor may escort you to your chambers."

Gwelwen nodded obligingly. "Very well, adar-nîn," she conceded, then faced Erestor once more. "Shall we, my Lord?"

Erestor nodded once and, after a small bow to her father, offered her his hand. They made their way toward her rooms in relative quiet, as Erestor collected his words - words which he did not get the chance to put to good use, as the moment he and Gwelwen were out of the sights of her father and Anorast, she pulled him aside into a shadowed corner and bade him to keep silent.

"My Lady...?" he whispered in confusion, and she pressed a cool finger to his lips as Elladan and Elrohir passed them by.

"Where nearest can we leave this house?" she asked, voice hushed, once the coast was clear.

"Leave? But your father instructed--"

"I know very well what my father instructed, but your invitation did precede that instruction, and I will not neglect my previous commitments. Time permits, and I wish to see the falls."

Taken aback, Erestor frowned, and shook his head. "I would not risk your father finding you missing from your chambers. The ties between our peoples are too precarious for this folly."

"He will be none the wiser of my whereabouts," she argued. "And even if he became so, I can make my own excuses for my absence."

Erestor still appeared wary, and with an impatient sigh Gwelwen tilted her head and regarded him seriously.

"Whether or not you accompany me, I will see the falls tonight," she promised. "If you would consent to compromising my safety, as I do not know the way nor any of the dangers that I must watch for, then I will go alone. But if you would guide me and protect me from my own ignorance as you have already expressed interest in doing, I would be most appreciative."

"Your tongue serves you quickly and sharply, my Lady," he admitted, hesitation in his voice, "but I will do naught more than escort you to your chambers this eve."

She looked about to speak again, and he interrupted her before a single sound could escape her mouth.

"I will do naught more than escort you to your chambers," he repeated, "but only if you would consent to taking the long way round. There is a route that would allow us to pass by the falls."

She smiled widely, and Erestor felt a tight knot form in his stomach at how delighted he was to have pleased her.

_This is madness!_ his conscience shouted at him as he took her hand once more and began to usher her to a little-used door that would lead them nearer to the surrounding wood than it would the garden. _She is a savage, a witch who has veiled your better judgement through some dark spellcraft. If her father discovers you, there is no telling what he may do. You would betray his wishes, betray all hope of peace between Caras Hargil and Imladris for one maiden's whimsy to view a waterfall?!_

And yet, the other half of his mind seemed intent on rationalising his actions.

_If magic she has used to deceive you, Lord Elrond would sense it, and it would be she who brings ruin to Imladris' negotiations with the Haredhil. You are under no obligation to obey an Elf who is still classed as your enemy, and if her father does see or hear of this noncompliance, simply do as she would: lie._

Lie? Erestor had not lied in...he could not recall, so very long ago it had been.

And it was neither half of Erestor's mind but rather Erestor the spectator, seperate from both halves, who next spoke mentally as he and Gwelwen ran like impish children past the Last Homely House and through the trees lining the path that would lead them to the falls: _Eru forgive me, I **have** gone mad..._

_No good can come of this,_ his conscience continued to warn him. _What can you possibly expect to gain from this ridiculous behaviour in future? She is Haredhil!_

And again, his less scrupulous half argued, _Even a life that would span all the Ages of Arda is meaningless if not lived day by day - nay, moment by moment, for it is in the smallest of moments that the truest of joys are found._

The whole of Erestor's mind was thrown off by the declaration. In all his long years, he had never thought his soul to be of the romantic sort, and had thought his time for love had long since passed him by. He was not sorry for it - he had his books, his duties, good food and drink, and never lacked for companionship when he had need of it. He was fulfilled, and had no reason to desire love. Love in itself seemed to more often than not lack reason entirely, which was a characteristic that did not agree with his personality at all.

_Love?_ his conscience scoffed, sounding vaguely concerned. _We said nothing of love._

A small flare of panic surged through him, and he quickly cleared the notion from his mind, focusing instead on his surroundings. They were nearly to the falls now, moving nimbly up a large, smooth rock that jutted from the ground like a great bear's tooth, stopping only when they stood atop its highest point.

"Oh..." Gwelwen breathed, taking in the sight before her with wide, enraptured eyes. The falls seemingly fell into starlight, cradled only by the steeply sloping sides of the ravine. Leaning forward, she could see them empty into the flowing bed of the Bruinen, the waters silvered by the light of the moon. "Such beauty as this cannot be bound by words..."

For many moments they stood in silence, and Erestor felt her hand become warmed in his grasp. Reluctant to shatter the peace that drifted around them as they gazed upon the resplendent majesty of nature's evenfall, he curled his fingers more tightly around hers, hoping to draw her gradually from her reverie.

It worked: she tilted her head, peering at him with the light of the stars in her eyes.

"Why are you here?" he asked simply, softly so as not to have her believe he thought her unwelcome.

Gwelwen appeared slightly startled by the question. "I am here because my people seek peace," she replied as if it were obvious, and Erestor shook his head.

"Why are _you_ here?" he said again. "Pardon my candour, but you appear to play no part in the negotiations between Imladris and Caras Hargil, and I cannot help but wonder why your father feels your presence here is a necessary one."

"Ah, yes..." She pulled away from him, taking a couple of steps closer toward the edge of the rock. "I accompany my father on all of his travels."

She did not offer any further explanation, and Erestor prompted her to elaborate.

"Because he wishes it," she said. "He prefers me to remain where he can see me at his will."

The counsellor's brow creased in a frown, and he held tightly the reins of his impulse to close the distance that had grown between them. "It displeases you."

"It does and it does not," Gwelwen shrugged. "I have seen much of Khand and Harad, and even ventured once into the east, though not a long way, I will admit. I am grateful his will to keep me near is so strong, for if his protectiveness tended toward the opposite it is doubtful that I would ever be permitted outside the walls of Caras Hargil. Thus I never openly dispute his wishes, and because of that his trust in me does not waver. I can do as is my own will much more freely this way."

"Why does he guard you so closely?"

She did not reply, but turned suddenly and stepped nearer to him once more, her mouth curved into a teasing smile that did not fit with the distant tone in which she had been speaking. "You ask many personal questions, Lord Erestor, though as I was rude enough this early morn to question your faith in all that is held sacred, it only serves rightly that you would question me now. Your inquisitiveness has unveiled my falsities: there is a serpent hidden 'neath this flower, and I am in truth not my father's daughter, but an enchantress schooled by Variag witches in the art of deception, employed by Lord Lithir to beguile and persuade the House of Elrond into siding with the Haredhil."

She raised a hand to touch his face; Erestor caught it in his, and lowered it slowly.

"Mock me not, Lady Gwelwen," he softly compelled, "for with your lies do your charms lessen."

And she whispered in return, "But against my lies do your gentle truths seem even lovelier. Why do you not feel wariness at my words, when in my company many of your kind would believe them without protest?"

"Wariness I do feel, my Lady, and especially in your company, as I find that my trust and distrust of you both stem seemingly from the same source."

She frowned at him, and shook her head. "I do not understand."

"Nor do I," he sighed. "I fear too much wine has loosed my tongue this night. Come; we have dallied here long enough. Your chambers await you."

Pale eyes briefly narrowed at him bemusedly, but she did not attempt to protest. "As you wish, my Lord."

They made their way back to the house much more slowly than they had come from it, though they still walked amongst the trees to avoid being sighted by any who may have been watching the path from afar. On silent feet they sneaked back inside, and Erestor delivered her to the door of her rooms without incident. He bade her good-night with no cumbersome pleasantries, and she was not satisfied with the reappearance of his more aloof self.

"Lord Erestor," she called as he swept down the hall, knowing that his reborn adherence to formalities would demand he give pause to heed whatever complaints awaited to free themselves from her lips.

Indeed he did pause, and turned to regard her enquiringly, but it was not complaint that left her mouth.

"I would thank you for indulging my whims this eve," she murmured sincerely. "It was very kind of you."

"And you are very welcome, my Lady," he replied; "though I do admit it was attributed more to foolishness than to kindness."

The maiden looked mildly offended. "Foolishness? Think you my company foolish?"

"Is it not?" he said shortly. "To betray the trust of one's elders can rarely be called anything else."

She glared at him then, hurt unintentionally present in her face alongside anger. "Better a free bird with a foolish song, than a caged bird with no song at all, and may I remind you that I was not the only one who knew that tune this night," she pointed out, then sighed with exasperation. "Must we forever part on adverse terms? It grows tiresome and senseless."

He was quiet for a moment, and then moved to approach her. "It does at that. I apologise for my rudeness; it is with my own actions that I am cross. Mostly."

A smile graced her features at his tone, which could almost be judged playful.

"May we begin peace with our friendship, then," said Gwelwen, "and pray that others may follow our lead."

Erestor's mouth curved into the slightest of smiles. "And so it is with hope and not malice that I now leave you, and for a second time bid you good-night." He bowed low with more flourish than was necessary and took hold of one of her hands, and then raised it to press his lips lightly against the backs of her fingers. The softness of her skin sent a queer chill of exhileration to dance along his spine and into his chest, and he started once again down the hall before she could notice the flush that coloured his cheeks. As he neared the corner, he heard her voice whisper a wish to him of pleasant dreams.

***+*+*+***

"Sauron stirs," said Anorast the next day, his voice wryly casual. "With each day that withers in its passing does he regain an ounce more of strength, a thread more of the being he once was. For over three centuries has this been so, and despite your distance from Mordor which we, unfortunately, cannot yet share, certainly you, too, have felt it."

"I have," Lord Elrond nodded, a shadow passing over his eyes.

"He will rise again before this Age is past," Anorast continued, "of that we have no doubt, and of that we have no want to partake of again, I least of all." He exchanged a glance with Lord Lithir, and lowered his eyes. The gesture was one acknowledging some dark, hidden shame, but Erestor was uncertain - it conveyed too much guilt too openly in the presence of strangers, and it bluntly invited inquiry, even sought it. That was not shame: it was pride. False modesty, perhaps? Or possibly some difficult obstacle overcome?

Lithir appeared not to notice. "As Sauron's power grows, so does the confidence of those who would follow him. Their forces are ever bolder each time we meet them, and there are no corners of Caras Hargil that remain unscathed: Orcs from the West; Haradrim from the South; Easterlings from the East; Variags from the North. For a short time we did manage to live in relative tranquility, being neither attacked nor attacking, but with the return of the Nine we did quickly realise that that time had ended. They know well of our...'treachery'...against the Dark Lord, and spread word throughout the Southern lands that we are the enemy. Gondor's forces at Morannon yet hold them at bay from the land of their master, but their influence still carries much sway."

_They are trapped,_ Erestor mulled silently. _A wild beast, caged, and so they howl pleas of peace, that they would deny their nature in order to obtain the freedom to express it._

His fingertips drummed nigh silently on the table as he thought, as he frowned. Words of the previous day returned to him: _"Better a free bird with a foolish song, than a caged bird with no song at all."_

But this was no song; it was battle these Haredhil spoke of, battle and protection, the risking of Rivendell lives to free a mistrusted people who had not yet proven their worth. It was a cold thought, but a true one. A memory of a time long past crept into his mind on deft spiders' legs, one wrought with shadow and spilt blood. A mere glimpse of a painted face and wild hair caught up in a foetid wind, hair that swept back to reveal the tip of one pointed ear before its owner had been run through by a spear...

The thought was pushed away as another drifted into his head, and echoed softly about his skull: _"I do not think you savage, my Lady."_

That, too, had been true.

"Should we attempt," Lithir continued, "to leave Khand without aid, our numbers...our people...will be diminished beyond any hope of recovery." He lowered his gaze as his eyes became glazed and distant with remembrance. "Even those who survived would be strangled by grief, and I--"

"Excuse me, Lord Lithir," Elrond cut him off, a hard scowl marring his brow as he glanced first out the west-facing window, then between Glorfindel and Erestor, who both looked upon him with concern, for an interruption from the Lord of Imladris was a most rare discourtesy. "I apologise, but one of your kinsmen does quickly approach this house from the Southern slopes."

He looked briefly to his left, focusing his eyes on some random point as he focused his mind on a specific one. "He is afraid."

  


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adar-nîn - "my father"

A/N: Not a huge cliffhanger, but the chapter had to end _somewhere_ and it was being difficult. The "love" Erestor argues amongst himselves (new word) is meant in the Renaissance sense of the word - infatuation. Just in case anyone might be thinking things are progressing along too quickly on that front...

To my kind reviewers...

**Píp**: Thanks. :) Anorast will...actually, I forsee much fun being had with him - writing-wise, at least.  
**morchaint**: Oh, one mustn't need to lust after Erestor to be an Erestwhore (I don't, either). It merely implies an adoration of the character and most things related to him. As for the Kinslaying...it's the "brink" part of the summary that keeps my ambition in check. So far.  
**Nemis**: Erestor is...confusing himself, and has trouble dealing. ;) I really hope you do keep enjoying this!  
**Arabella Thorne**: Thank you much! The wild-elf concept was mainly just me wanting to give Elves cornrows... *grins*

As always, thanks for reading, all. 


	4. Of departures and agitation

Disclaimer: All canon things are property Tolkien/Tolkien's literary estate, borrowed out of wuv, sweet wuv.

  


* * *

  
The guards had already subdued the new Haredhel when the council members parted from the main house. This was an Elf unlike any Erestor had seen before, for though his rust-coloured hair was plaited in the same manner as that of his kinsmen, he was clothed very differently.

He wore not the pale robes that Anorast and Lithir had favoured since their arrival, but garments of weathered canvas and braided brown leather. Woven into the right breast of his tunic was a small, eight-pointed star of gold, which Erestor took to be the symbol of Caras Hargil. Cast into the earth were two polished silver sais, along with a bow wrought of cyprus wood, and a quiver of dark arrows. The Haredhel's hands were splayed in the air, and he declared that he came only in peace many times, his eyes wide and flashing between the armed Imladris wardens who surrounded him.

"Please!" he implored them; "I mean no harm here - I only wish to speak to my Lord Lithir!"

The Rivendell guards exchanged glances, unsure, until Lord Elrond bade them to be at ease. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons as Lithir and Anorast stepped forward.

"Luimenel?" Lithir questioned the younger Haredhel, a deep frown of concern upon his face, knowing that the warrior would have only travelled so far to bear bad news.

Luimenel dismounted his horse, his legs nearly crumpling beneath him. His shoulders stooped from exhaustion, and when he came to kneel before his lord it seemed more like a movement beyond his control than it did a show of respect - to an even greater extent when Lithir fell to his knees in front of him, and took his face in his hands.

"Luimenel, tell me, what has happened?" Lithir demanded, dread in his voice.

"The Haradrim," Luimenel choked. "Two weeks following your departure, they attacked sixty strong. We defeated them, but there was...loss of life. One loss."

"...who?" whispered Lithir, looking as though he already knew the answer, but was unwilling to voice it. That pain went to Luimenel, who raised his eyes to meet his lord's, apology and deep sorrow in his gaze.

"Your sister's son Timagol."

Lithir paled, his warm skin turning ashen, and bowed his head.

"Morloth despairs," Luimenel continued. "It is feared that she will soon fade into shadow, to be with her son and husband in the Halls of Mandos. But she...she wishes to see you before her passing from this realm."

Lithir closed his eyes, and Anorast, who had watched the scene unfold with a face of stone, stepped forward to his lord's side, poised to carry out an order he already knew was coming.

"Anorast," said Lithir, raising his head at last, a new hardness to his eyes that was evident even beneath the wetness of tears that remained hindered by his lashes, "ready the horses. Find my daughter. We leave before nightfall."

Anorast nodded once, then parted in haste to do as he had been instructed. Erestor felt a strange pang of grief as the South-elf breezed past him, and it was not due to Lord Lithir's loss of his nephew.

***+*+***

_This should be cause for happiness._

It was a horrible thought, but one that made its way into Erestor's mind nonetheless. 

Solemn was the mood as the Haredhil began to mount their horses that evening; Luimenel would stay behind two days to rest and recuperate, for both he and his mount had been riding in spurts of five days, with but a handful of hours' rest inbetween.

It had been arranged for the Elves of Caras Hargil to return to Imladris shortly, within a year if possible, to resume talk of peace and its terms. All were uncomfortable when the agreement had been made, as words that the Haredhil had not spoken aloud seemed to hang in the air nevertheless: How many more must perish amidst laments composed of talk and delay before action is taken, and lives preserved?

It had been only one life - was one life too many? How many lives had been taken by Haredhil warriors in times long past? And was it the Foredhil's place to say when idle vengeance had been taken in full?

Erestor mentally shook his head. Lithir's nephew had not been slain by the pettiness of Imladris, if there was pettiness at all to be found. The Haredhil had settled in Khand knowing well the risks it brought.

Risks which they now sought aid to unbind themselves from.

No - it was too soon for guilt. The whole story had yet to unfold; every possible angle had yet to be examined, and until such was done, Rivendell could not in good conscience act in any way. There was no wisdom to be found in rash emotions, and to feel without thought could be very dangerous indeed. Erestor would not allow the grief of the Khandian Elves to manipulate his own perception of their situation.

And still he could not hold at bay the awful wrench of his stomach as he looked up into Gwelwen's sorrowful face, stained with tears of mourning for her cousin. In her eyes he expected to see accusation, frustration, the same mute blame that resided in the gazes of her kinsmen that he could ignore, but none of these things he could find; only a numb sadness that caused him to shudder slightly, as though she had born such heartache before, and far more than once. In her black cloak, and with her hollow stare, she became once more the wraith he had thought her to resemble upon first sight. Inwardly, he could not stop contradicting himself, unable to be either pleased or saddened by her departure. The only certain feeling within him was that of relief - she would go, and mayhap his mind would find some peace.

Slowly, Gwelwen raised a trembling hand to him - _To **us**,_ he corrected himself - in farewell. He returned the gesture automatically, and within a moment all three Haredhil turned their horses and began their long journey home. For quite some time, the group assembled in front of the Last Homely House watched their dark forms become small with distance. The Lord and Lady of the house retreated first indoors, and the others slowly trickled in behind them. Erestor did not realise he was the last one left until Glorfindel placed a coaxing hand on his shoulder, and led him back inside. Just as quickly as they had arrived, the Elves of Khand were gone once more.

All but one.

***+*+***

The guards stationed at the doors to the Hall of Healing wordlessly allowed him to pass after the morning meal the following day. Luimenel lay in one of the many beds - all of them empty, save his - still nursing a cup of miruvor and looking well rested, if still somewhat wary of his surroundings. Now bathed and in clean clothing, the Haredhel appeared almost an ordinary Elf, excepting the tight plaits that still adorned his hair. Erestor approached him slowly, as one might approach a wild animal, and pulled up a chair to sit near his bed.

"Good morning," the counsellor greeted him stoically, the pleasantries awkward and almost inane on his tongue. "How fare thee?"

The South-elf would not play along. "More questions?" he sighed. "Tell me, is every meal to be both preceded and followed by an interrogation?"

Preceded? Lord Elrond must have already seen to their guest before breakfast.

"No," Erestor replied. "This is an...unofficial enquiry. Its purpose is only to satisfy my own personal curiosities."

Luimenel bristled. "Am I bound to answer?"

"You are not."

"Then tell me, Foredhel, why should I pay any mind at all to your...curiosities?"

Erestor tilted his head, and focused a piercing gaze upon the warrior. "Do you love your people?"

Luimenel nodded once. "I do."

"Then you would be unwise not to heed my questions. I am Erestor, chief advisor to Lord Elrond. My influence upon him is great. If you would see your people protected and aided in leaving Khand, your cooperation at present may help me to more clearly see the needs of the Haredhil, and Imladris will not act until it understands fully what it is acting for."

Depending on semantics, Erestor's words could be considered truthful: he _did_ need to better understand the Haredhil themselves in order to form an objective opinion of whether or not making peace with their kind would be beneficial to all. This he told himself, and many times over, so as not to allow his more selfish - and, in fact, more honest - motives a chance to provoke his conscience into protesting this symposium.

Luimenel narrowed his eyes, and scanned Erestor's calm, emotionless face. "You bribe me, Foredhel?"

Erestor shook his head. "No. I merely advise."

Shifting his gaze to the far wall, Luimenel swallowed uneasily. "So this is the savagery of the Northern realms: you duel minds in place of bodies."

Between Anorast, Gwelwen, and Luimenel, Erestor was beginning to wonder if a proneness to exaggerration ran in the blood of all Haredhil. "If that is how you wish to view it," he conceded, for he knew in a muzzled part of his heart that his words to the South-elf bordered on cruel, even if he could not help but take advantage of Luimenel's presence. With the workings of his mind being as thorough and calculating as they were, Erestor was gifted with the ability to bend the verities of others through the grace in his tongue, though it was a gift he rarely used or desired to use. This day, he turned his gift inward upon himself as well as upon the Haredhel, and quelled his scruples. "Tell me of Khand."

The beginnings of a sneer curled at Luimenel's mouth. His hands tightened around the cup of miruvor, and an inner conflict was apparent in his face. "What if it is not peace you entertain, but deception?" he growled. "Though your lord has shown me kindness, you are yet our enemies. How am I to know you would not use the knowledge I would impart to you to...to serve you in an attack against us, if peace cannot be reached?"

"Peace shall never be reached without trust," Erestor contended, adapting his coercions as the conversation progressed. "Your Lady Gwelwen counts me among her friends. Call you her ignorant?"

"Nay!" the South-elf said quickly. "She is known to be wise in matters of character, and is well-loved amongst our people!"

There, Erestor thought to himself, triumph ringing in his mind. "O? Tell me more of her virtues."

And in his haste to "defend" his lady, Luimenel did not even notice that Erestor spoke little of peace, and asked little of Khand outside of the maiden's ways.

"That was almost devious of you, gwador-nîn," a smooth voice echoed quietly in the corridor, once Erestor had finished questioning the Haredhel and left the Hall of Healing.

Elrond's chief counsellor bit back a cringe, his hands curling unconsciously into fists. With an air of forced indifference he turned to face Glorfindel, who leaned languidly against the wall some six feet away from Erestor. "Was it?" he asked lightly.

The golden-haired Elf pushed off from the wall and came to stand in front of his friend, his blue eyes twinkling, half-suspicious and half-amused. "Mayhap Lord Elrond was in error, sending you to discern Gwelwen's intentions," he smirked. Erestor levelled his gaze, refusing to succumb to the very strong and very immature urge he had to roll his eyes at the other advisor.

"I was merely gathering further information on the maiden which I had not a chance to collect ere she and her people departed," he reasoned.

"Of course," Glorfindel agreed with nary a hint of sincerity.

"They are _gone_, Glorfindel."

"But she will be back."

"And that is of no concern to me," Erestor snapped, and spun quickly on his heel to leave.

Glorfindel caught him by the arm and turned him around, and only just managed to duck his head in time to avoid the other Elf's reflexive strike. His eyes widened in surprise - rarely was his friend so overstrung as to react in such a way, especially to what he thought was simple banter. "Peace, good Erestor, peace," he soothed, slowly releasing his hold on the dark-haired Elf's arm. "I am sorry."

"Be not so," Erestor muttered, grey eyes refusing to meet blue. With a frustrated sigh, he shook his head. "It is I who should apologise. I did not mean..." he trailed off, and took a step back. "Speak not to me of her, Glorfindel, for there is nothing to be said."

Erestor turned once more to go, and Glorfindel frowned dubiously at his departing back. "According to your wish, gwador-nîn," he murmured, then started away for stables, where Elladan and Elrohir awaited his company for a morning ride.

***+*+***

The hoofbeats of Firithamrûn pounded a quick, steady percussion from the earth, their timing perfect enough to compose a song by.

The Haredhil remained silent as they rode, following the path of the Misty Mountains to the South. Resiliant as her kind were to changes in temperature, Gwelwen felt the wind - so very much colder here than in Khand - lash across her face, numbing her skin and causing her eyes to sting. She raised a hand to clear her vision of its fogginess, and noticed her father send a concerned, doleful look her way. Doubtless he thought she yet wept for Timagol.

They had been riding for six days now, and mourning her cousin's loss was strangely difficult for her. Though Gwelwen had loved Timagol dearly, and still felt much grief at the thought that his wide, childish smile would never again light the halls of Caras Hargil, she was unable to shed anymore tears for him, too distracted by a new anxiety, one that both filled her breast and made it weightless simultaneously. It had begun in Imladris: a queer urge to scream into nothingness, to cry out in joy, horror, confusion - indeed _all_ of the emotions that she had ever felt - until she exhausted herself into a warm, black slumber. Needless to say, it was greatly unlike anything she had experienced before.

And it had not, as she had expected it to, remained in Rivendell when she had left. Like a half-starved jackel, it nipped at her heels as she rode, gnawing at her thoughts and preying upon her mind until she could scarcely concentrate on anything else.

In the beginning, she had thought it merely frustration, stress; certainly both were warranted by the circumstances of her brief stay in the Elf-haven. But she knew that such was not the case, when she found herself dwelling on the heat of his hands, and the deep grey of his eyes.

_Like storm clouds,_ she mused; _dark yet void of shadow, poised to quench the thirst of the desert with rain._

She had regarded him to be beautiful when first she had sighted him, though he was not classically handsome as Anorast, or Lord Glorfindel were. His face was smooth, and though its angles were not sharp, there was still something very...defined...about his features. His hair was black as a craban's feathers, and Gwelwen enjoyed the way it hung loose to the small of his back, and the way it danced behind him like a sentient shadow when he ran. She would have liked to have been able to allow her own hair such freedom, but Caras Hargil was frequented by strong winds, and sandstorms were not uncommon; to do so would have been impractical.

Yes, she decided, Erestor did intrigue her, and that would not do at all.

Her father would never approve of her interest in the Imladris advisor. In truth, her father would never approve of her interest in anyone. That Erestor was Foredhil would only serve to amplify Lord Lithir's forbiddance. Gwelwen understood this, and understood why, and though she might have run off on small, foolish adventures when her father's eyes strayed, there were some lines of loyalty which she could not cross - which she had vowed not to cross. And up until just over one week ago, she had never before been conflicted by that vow.

Despite the tragedies of her cousin's death and her aunt's desperation weighing heavily upon her shoulders, Gwelwen could not help but be grateful for the swift departure from Rivendell that they had brought about. Though she knew that she, her father and Anorast would in time return to the haven, the days that fell between now and then would do well to bring her focus back to her people. Caras Hargil sought aid from Imladris, and Gwelwen sought friendship in Erestor as a means to gain that aid. Nothing more.

_Your childish behaviour the night ere you left did naught to reinforce that,_ she inwardly scolded herself, anxiety rising within her once more as she recalled the way her extravagent claims had had the opposite effect on him than she had intended. _With my lies do my charms lessen...he did not act as if that were so..._

If she did not believe that her friendship with the Foredhel would bear fruit, she would have gladly feigned indifference to his presence. He could not very well pursue a spiritless statue, and were she a statue, neither could she pursue him. And if the sudden changes in his demeanour when he was around her were any indication - that is, if the soft-spoken, serious side of him she had glimpsed between his bouts of petulant irritation was his dominant temperament as she suspected - no doubt he would have appreciated her efforts. They were two grown, mature Elves, above such a fledgling folly as infatuation. Their time for that sort of innocence had been over for many years, and to quest for it presently would be pointless and ultimately assayed in vain. There were more important things to tend to.

Perhaps next time she would turn her attentions toward Lord Glorfindel, or - as her father would approve of far more - seek companionship with the ladies of the house, Celebrían and Arwen. Neither had seemed unkind. Mayhap she could endear herself to the sons of Elrond as well, for surely the Lord of Imladris would heed the urgings of his family in matters of state, if they all wished the same.

Frowning, Gwelwen pressed Firithamrûn to hasten her pace. The support of the noble family of Rivendell would help, but after well over a millennia of watching her father rule, Gwelwen knew that, in the end, it was always a lord's council that won out, and it was mere happenstance if that council's judgement of a matter coincided with that of the lord's family.

Lord Glorfindel, then, to whom she harboured no real attraction. He had seemed a very charming Elf, full of vibrance and an intoxicating love of life. It was a wonder that he had not yet wed. Yes...Glorfindel would be...safe.

Nodding nigh imperceptibly to herself as if to assert her newfound resolve, the Lady of Caras Hargil urged her mount faster still, and tried to outdistance the lingering image of grievous storm-grey eyes and blue-black hair that gave chase to her from the North.

  


* * *

  
Luimenel - "blue sky"  
Timagol - "little star blade"  
Morloth - "dark flower"  
Firithamrûn - "fading dawn"

And thus my brain withers, and my skull becomes naught more than a house for bugs. (It's currently half four in the morning. I need to go and die before I witness my second sunrise.) A mighty bellow of Thank You!! to my readers and especially my reviewers. Very much appreciated. xoxo 


	5. Of passing time and introspection

Disclaimer: All canon things are Tolkien's. The bad poetry of Lindir, however, is unfortunately mine. ;) For that I apologise in advance.

  


* * *

  
_Gwirith, Year 1424 of the Third Age_

  
The Haredhil's swift return was not to be so, and twenty years had become enfolded into the dark passages of time since the eve that they had left Rivendell, their kinsman following a short two days after. The Witch-king of Angmar had invaded the Northern kingdoms since then; further evidence of the growing threat that the Khandian Elves had spoken of. And yet, much of Imladris had all but ceased to pay their quandaries of the Haredhil any mind any longer. Two decades with nary a word, though not a terribly great length of silence for the Eldar, was still very much longer than had been anticipated. In the growing stress of unrest - for the Orcs and wargs now prowled much closer to the haven than they once had - there was little time and strength of people to be spared, and to send a party to Caras Hargil to ascertain the cause of the South-elves' delay - or to ascertain whether there were any South-elves who yet lived there - would have been folly.

That, and there were none who knew the actual location of the city. Lord Elrond would not risk the lives of those he led for a simple messenger's mission. The road was too dangerous, and regrettably, there were other, more pressing matters that needed to be tended to. None seemed overly concerned about the South-elves' absence. In truth, it seemed almost welcome at first, before relief faded into apathy.

There had been quite a few arched eyebrows on the subject upon the return of Gildor and Golradir - the other half of the wisdom that made up the Elrond's advisors - from the Grey Havens, where they had journeyed to seek council with Lord Círdan. Even Lindir, who was forever humming to himself and had grown steadily more enchanted with the art of crafting songs and music with each passing year, had composed a satirical lay of the arid realm the South-elves wished to escape from. Erestor had confessed to Glorfindel that he was more fond of Lindir the guard than Lindir the minstrel. Glorfindel had promptly shared his fine voice to the ballad upon his friend's admission:

_'Neath Anor, burning hot and bright  
Do Haredhil there find their fright  
Of all the dangers they would flee  
There is but one at which they weep  
I warn thee, friend, of wicked winds  
Of scalding sands with loathsome whims  
Though Man and Orc are gladly slain  
There is one foe they cannot tame  
In shade of night or light of day  
It creeps along, it finds its way  
Flung sharp against bodies and into brown faces  
The true curse of Khand: sand in odd, awkward places_

Distasteful as it was, it had become quite the popular tune for nearly two months following its first performance. Not even Lord Elrond could hold his scowl for long upon hearing it, though Erestor's smile had been quite forced. Mayhap it might not have been so, had his mind not been so oft consumed with thoughts of those which the lay poked fun at. Twenty years, and still her face haunted his dreams - not nightly, though that had been the case at first - but frequently enough that the knowledge of her existence never strayed far from his thoughts. In retaliation for this, Erestor had drowned himself in his work, and such was his nature that few had noticed initially. When Elrond and Glorfindel had at last grown concerned enough to enquire of the chief counsellor's well-being, Erestor had long since concocted reasonably lighthearted excuses to quell their worries. The growing political tensions of various realms helped much in that respect, though they did little to ease his emotional state. Two decades had done precious little to dull his memory of her.

Whatever lingering infatuation he had for the Haredhil maiden, he had decided firmly against it being anything like love. Love, as Erestor understood it - as best as he _could_ understand it - happened when another further brightened one's best traits, and dimmed their worst. The opposite rang true of what Gwelwen, and the thought of her, did to him. The invasion of another realm by wicked shadows should not have pleased him in any way, even if that way was merely the relief of having yet another responsibility to weight down his mind, and distract him from more personal dwellings. He should not have looked forward to such horrible things, and his own selfishness, though secreted away from all others, disgusted him, and inwardly he was ashamed of both his thoughts and his actions.

He was lying to his lord, his friends, even to himself the majority of the time, and he had thanked Ilúvatar more than once that the former two seemed to have remained relatively unaware of his doing so. For three months following their conversation in the corridor after Erestor had questioned Luimenel, Glorfindel had somehow managed to both walk on eggshells while around him _and_ enquire of his well-being with all the subtlety of a charging bull, simultaneously. It had taken a great deal more smiling and insouciance than he was used to in order to convince the golden-haired Elf-lord that his fleeting curiosity of the South-elven lady had been simply that, though Glorfindel still occasionally glanced sidelong at him whenever the Haredhil happened to be mentioned in passing.

A part of him wanted to confide in his friend, but his pride would not allow it. Through his refined tongue he always managed to convince himself of the minuteness of his plight - there were more important things than a trivial infatuation with a female he scarcely knew. He could not afford to become distracted by foolish, pointless pining, and felt that the fact that he _was_ spoke only ill of his character.

Besides, he could not be certain he would ever see her again. Though in his heart he felt that she yet lived, there was still much that could happen in twenty years' time, especially in the barbaric realm of Khand.

It was to those desolate lands that his mind again strayed this evening, as he watched the flames of dusk bleed into the growing twilight overhead from his place on the roof of the great library of Imladris. This was his favourite place for thought, and when he was not busy with political affairs he could often be found here - providing one knew of his attachment to the spot. The grand view it gave of the valley as well as the nature of the building itself rarely failed to comfort him, and ease away whatever worries resided within his mind. Here, he was quite literally sitting atop a tremendous wealth of knowledge and wisdom, beauty and life, and his keen eyes relished the glorious sight of an Arda of the Firstborn. He enjoyed to liken the tranquility he felt here to what the Ainur and Ilúvatar Himself must have felt upon their creation of these lands: such joy and pride, and a majesty unlike anything that had come before it.

A short distance away, the vocal waters of the Bruinen shone as liquid gold, slowly paling as Anor sank gently into slumber. The trees bade the lightgiver good-night, bowing slightly in a soft breeze, and Erestor was wont to do the same with a small nod of his head.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms about his legs and wondered of a Khandian twilight. Did Varda's stars shun that region, as they shunned Mordor? An image formed in his head of the shadowed halls of Caras Hargil, their oppressive blackness relieved only by hot, dry torchlight. The desert froze in the night, he knew, as severely as it burnt during the day. What was it like, he wondered, to live in so harsh a land wrought of fire and ice, and wreathed in darkness? How searing was the flame, and how biting the cold? Were the Elves that resided there true products of the extremities of their environment, or a strangely temperate mixture of both ends of the spectrum? Which was she, who ignited fire within him with her glacial touch, whose image was seared into his mind, and sent a chill along his spine?

A wisp of white danced on the periphery of his vision, and Erestor cocked his head to better glimpse the object in question. Three Elves - Calenmîr, Elothinel, and Malannel - were stringing up the first of many banners that were to be hung within the next six weeks. Though every season was welcomed with a day of feasting and play in Imladris, this particular year's celebrations would all be especially grand, as they marked the final seasons' passing in a third yén - an event which only occured once every four-hundred thirty-two years. The Adel Ethuil, it was called - the Last Spring - and the festivities to be held in its honour fell upon the final six days of Lothron. Yet another vexation Erestor was glad for.

The celebration did have an underlying purpose apart from a farewell to springtime; already the rulers of the great Elven realms of Lothlórien, Mirkwood and Mithlond, along with their closest kin, had begun their journeys to Imladris. Ties would be strengthened, and old grudges laid to rest - at least for a little while. "A small gap in time," Lord Elrond had said of it, "in which only light resides, and all minds are eased of what shadows may plague them."

All who made a home of Rivendell, and even a handful of those who did not, would have a part to play in the grand event.

The wind began to pick up. Erestor tucked a softly whipping braid behind his ear, and felt the silent approach of another, which he pretended to ignore even as Glorfindel settled gracefully down next to him. Though the movement was punctuated with a sigh, the golden-haired Elf did not speak for many moments, reluctant to shatter the quiet peace when beneath them the halls of the House of Elrond were beginning to feel the frenzy of preparation for the upcoming festival.

"What is it that burdens your mind this eve?" he said at last, folding his legs beneath himself as he followed Erestor's gaze to some random point on the horizon.

The darker Elf gave a little hum that could have been a sound of amusement, or one of thoughtfulness. "There is nothing," he casually replied. "I only bid Anor farewell until the morn."

"For three hours?" Glorfindel arched one dubious eyebrow.

"Yes," Erestor answered shortly, "and tomorrow it may be five hours, and the following day one hour. I see not how it matters."

"It makes obvious your fib; in that does it matter."

"I do not 'fib'." Erestor wrinkled his nose in distaste at the word.

"Then your deceit is greater, and you lie outright," Glorfindel persisted, and the other Elf exhaled an exasperated growl, and fell back to lay against the tiles of the roof.

"We have had this argument countless times before. Pray tell me when you will at last desist and accept that _I am well_?"

"When that is true, I will desist."

"You squawk like a mother hen."

"And you whine like a mule. Ai Erestor, you know I do know you well; your thoughts are oftentimes hidden from the world, and I respect your silence, for when you do speak your words are always considered with great care, and they are all the wiser for that; but I will not allow you to wallow alone in your troubles, and I would expect the same perserverance from you if I were the one downhearted."

"You would not receive it," Erestor muttered, glaring up at the darkening heavens. "I would not treat you as an insecure Elfling incapable of sorting through your own personal quandaries, and would leave you to reflect in peace."

"Ah, so you admit to being beset by personal quandaries? All is in fact _not_ well?" Glorfindel twisted around to look triumphantly at his fellow advisor, an exultant smirk on his fair face. Erestor huffed once and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "You are not the only one with a clever tongue, my friend," his tow-headed companion remarked.

"Glorfindel, please, leave me be. The burdens I bear I have born for many a year now; they will not lessen, but nor will they weigh any heavier upon me than they already do. Take comfort in that, and be satisfied."

Glorfindel made no move to do as Erestor requested, but neither did he speak for some time. _Why must he be so endlessly serious?_ he wondered with an inward sigh. Erestor was even worse than Lord Elrond in that respect, though Elrond had a wife, a family to ground him and keep him in good humour. Glorfindel himself, having once tasted death, possessed a sheer love of life that prevented him from allowing whatever distresses happened along his way to cause his mind excessive ills.

Erestor had always been uncommonly grave for an Elf, and though he had suffered his share of tragedy and loss, it was certainly no greater amount than that of others'. It was the way in which his mind worked through whatever was troubling him, no matter how large or how small the matter, that caused him to withdraw into his thoughts and stubbornly reside there, despite the hands that sought to retrieve him from that shell. 

Though a brave and capable fighter when it was required of him, Erestor was above all things an intellectual, and while that trait had served him best in war and in council, Glorfindel could not help but feel that it was at times detrimental to the younger Elf's well being. It occasionally seemed to Glorfindel that Erestor was made solely of eyes, able to take in every inch of his surroundings, able to see situations from every possible viewpoint, both physically and mentally, and able to analyse them all to determine the best course of action for the greater good - or most fruitful victory - of everyone involved. He had once been named the Eyes of Gil-galad during battle - one of the High King's finest scouts and strategists - and he now served Elrond in a similar capacity.

But Erestor's keen sight and wisdom were not infallible. So much did he see that he could sometimes twist his mind into knots of confusion - and Glorfindel knew that to Erestor, confusion was one of the greatest turmoils. The black-haired Elf's ruminations ran deep, true to his Noldorin heritage, and now and then they ran too deep; too dark. Second to confusion was memory - yet another double-edged blade to all who had ever known grief, the Eldar most of all - and Erestor's was sharp, accurate, and very vivid. Glorfindel knew this, as he had heard his friend recount journeys in exquisite detail - usually due to someone else "telling the story _wrong_." A tale told by Erestor in the warmth of the Hall of Fire was a rare treat, for only then did it seem that the Elf's sombre demeanour would drift gradually away, leaving in its wake a rich expressiveness that was akin to witnessing the petals of a flower that bloomed but once in a century unfold.

Once in a century was not enough to satisfy Glorfindel. "A burden shared is a burden halved," he had once been told. It was common logic, and surely Erestor could never fault something as treasured as that. His very occupation was based upon it, after all. But when he said this to his friend, Erestor merely responded in turn: "And a secret shared loses half its worth."

"Since when is unhappiness a secret to cherish?" Glorfindel demanded, quickly becoming frustrated. "What perverse mindset is this that has stolen away your mother wit?"

"It is tall, yellow of hair, and speaks far too much for its own good. Ai Glorfindel, if I promise to, in due course, make known to you what ails me, will you now leave my mind to its rest?" Erestor pleaded, at last meeting the other Elf's eyes with an importunate glance. Glorfindel stared at him for a long while, searching his face for sincerity before finally yielding with a brief nod.

"I will speak no more of the matter - for now - but I cannot leave you at rest. The evening meal nears, and unless it is your wish to continue this conversation with a concerned someone other than myself, I suggest you avoid absence."

"With the house as frenzied as it is, who other than yourself would notice it?" Still, Erestor rose and brushed the dust from his robes, while Glorfindel made no attempt to make himself more presentable.

Inhaling deeply, the lighter Elf pulled himself up to stand on the tips of his toes, and stretched his arms toward the sky. "Hmm," he sighed contentedly, then slowly relaxed. "There is a spice to the air tonight. The winds are restless."

"A sign of good or ill?"

"I know not. Mayhap neither; mayhap it is simply ethuil." He paused for a moment, a strange light flashing behind his eyes, and frowned as if only just recalling something important he should have paid mind to a great deal of time ago. "My hair is _not_ 'yellow'."

A small laughed escaped Erestor's mouth before he could think to contain it. "No, it is not, I apologise."

"Thank you."

"It is more...robust...than simple yellow. Like the colour of an egg yolk, or a firith squash."

Glorfindel glowered pettishly. "At least my hair does not resemble the blood of an Orc when wet."

"Nay," Erestor agreed, the cutting of mirth into his formerly unplayful mood bringing a smirk to his lips; "it merely resembles urine."

Blue eyes widened in shock, though their jovial sparkle remained. "You are a vulgar beast, Erestor of Imladris, and I no longer wish to dine with you tonight! Good evening to you!" With a dismissive nod, Glorfindel sped up his pace and turned sharply round the nearest corner, disappearing from view.

Erestor only shook his head, and paused to glance leisurely out of the closest window. For some moments he stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, admiring once more the scenery of the hidden vale whilst inwardly he counted the seconds until--

"Erestor," Glorfindel sighed heavily, "_do_ make haste. I am hungry."

With a small smile, the darker Elf turned and followed his friend to where the spiced scent of food mingled with the spiced scent of the mild spring twilight. Glorfindel was right - the night itched with a strange sort of impatience - one that Erestor could not quite place, but that he nevertheless knew he had felt before. The air prickled against his skin as if it carried fine grains of sand, and the wind sang softly, sadly as a wandering wraith, through the nooks and crevices of the Last Homely House.

  


* * *

  
Gwirith - "April"  
Calenmîr - "green jewel"  
Elothinel - "Elf of the evening star"  
Malannel - "golden harp"  
Lothron - "May"  
yén - an Elvish "year"; equal to 144 human years. Every three Yéni (years) was a "leap year", shortened by three days. Of course, maths has always been my worst subject, and I highly doubt such an event actually fell on TA 1424. Used here it's an unrepentantly shallow plot device. ;)  
ethuil - "(late) spring"  
firith - "(late) autumn"

Thank you, of course, to all those who have read and reviewed. As an aspiring author, all forms of feedback are (needless to say) very much appreciated. :) Unfortunately, I'm going to have to put both this and my other story on hold for a few weeks due to the annoyance that is real life. I'll be on the road and then moving into a new place, the former of which will afford me much time to write on paper, and the latter of which won't allow me to type anything up for a bit. But on the bright side, I'll hopefully have plenty to upload upon my reconnection to the electronic world! *crosses fingers*

To **Arabella Thorne**: Absence does...something...though whether or not "fonder" is the word would, I suppose, depend on the character's point of view. ;) Many more threads to unravel and tie up to come; I hope your intrigue holds fast!  
**Píp**: Glorfindel's reaction...hmm...we'll just have to wait and see, I suppose. I have everything plotted out, but the more I write, the more little twists it begins to take away from the original plan. But he definitely won't be the most comfortable Elf in Rivendell. *grins* Of Gwelwen, thank you! I'm doing my best to make her a well-rounded character while keeping her "second" to Erestor. Things are going to be more in-depth from now on.  
and to **morchaint**: Not a Mary Sue so far? Well, woohoo! ;) I don't think I'll ever trust my own judgement enough to say whether she is or she isn't, as definitions of Suedom are oft times skewed and hey, I'm the author, I'm biased. I'm glad you're enjoying her (and the story itself), but of course feel free to give me a kick in the pants whenever something doesn't sit right with either. Thank you much. :)


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